


Better Safe Than Sorry (Sorry Means You're Dead)

by LayALioness



Series: Bellarke Halloweek! [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King of the Dragons needs a princess, and Clarke finds help in the least place she'd expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Safe Than Sorry (Sorry Means You're Dead)

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily influenced by the Enchanted Forest Series.
> 
> For turquoiseteakettle on tumblr who sent the prompt: both Bellamy and Clarke are witches and Clarke always thinks Bellamy's going out with Octavia or flirting with Raven but really he's trying to flirt with Clarke only she's really inept at picking things like that up.
> 
> I hope this fits!
> 
> If you have a spooky prompt for me, send it to tierannasaurusrex on tumblr! I will most likely do it, because I have an obsession with Halloween. It's a problem.

Clarke was repainting the sign on her apothecary—NONE OF THIS NONSENSE, PLEASE—when she heard the ground shake all around her.

She _heard_ , rather than _felt_ it, because she was sitting primly on her broom, hovering just a little under twelve feet in the air, to reach the sign in question.

Sighing only a little, and flicking her wrist so the paint can drifted down to rest on the porch, Clarke shifted around on her broom to glare down at her visitor.

Lexa huffed as the cats began to climb up her scales, to perch on her back. They liked to be higher than everything else around them, so they could look down on the world with pretention.

“Could you at least _try_ to control the little beasts?” Lexa grumbled, but Clarke knew it was an act. She liked the cats, really, but she had a reputation as King of the Dragons to protect.

“You know as well as I do they almost never listen,” Clarke said, stepping down onto the grass. As she spoke, Crickets pranced over to rub up against her boot, and tell her what a terrible morning he’s had. Clarke bent to scratch him on the ear, and then leveled Lexa with her most serious look. “What have you gone and done, this time?”

Lexa huffed again, affronted. “Why is it you always assume _I’m_ the antagonist?” she demanded, and Clarke clicked her tongue, amused despite herself.

“Because you always are,” she said pointedly, leading the dragon back into the house. She’d created it with Lexa in mind, so the building immediately shuffled itself to accommodate her. “So, what is it? Did you declare war against the Wizards, again?”

“Were that I could,” Lexa growled miserably. She’d entered a truce with the Society of Wizards just earlier that year, and was still very bitter about it. “I’ve been told by my advisors that I must soon acquire a princess,” she admitted, and Clarke spilled the hot tea she was pouring with a course.

She had it cleaned within a moment, of course, and the pain soothed with a finger, but. It was the principle of it.

“ _Must_ you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. She could guess where this conversation was headed.

“It seems so,” Lexa said sagely, nodding her great head. But she was staring at Clarke’s tea rather hungrily, so Clarke fetched a bucket to pour some in. “I might lose the crown over it.”

Clarke frowned, dropping the bucket in front of her so Lexa could drink her fill. She knew most of the dragons in the mountains, and while she liked quite a few of them, she wouldn’t want anyone but Lexa in the throne. “And so you thought you’d ask me if I wanted the job?”

Lexa smacked her wet lips, flashing her teeth a little. Clarke had known Lexa since she was very small—Clarke, not Lexa. Dragons aged very slowly—so she had never really _afraid_ of her, but every now and then she was reminded that Lexa was something to be feared.

“I could make the caves very comfortable for you,” she offered. She sounded almost hopeful about it, which sort of threw Clarke off. She was used to Lexa sounding bitter, impassive, even enraged, but never _hopeful_. She almost felt bad.

“I probably can’t take it, anyway,” Clarke said. “I’m not a princess anymore, not really. You can’t have a princess without a kingdom.”

“I was worried that would be the case,” Lexa sighed hugely, scattering the few small cats that had been slinking through the room. “I am sorry about your home,” she added, as an afterthought. Lexa was never the best at comfort.

Clarke just shrugged; it had been years since she’d lost her kingdom. It happened that way, sometimes. All sorts of things got lost in and around the Enchanted Forest. She’d mostly come to terms with it.

“You probably shouldn’t just go around kidnapping princesses,” Clarke said gently, and Lexa frowned. Lexa’s first plan of action was usually whatever involved the most violence; breathing fire all over crops and castles was totally her thing.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Maybe put an ad out?” Clarke offered. “I have the Witch’s Weekly Weed-Off tonight, I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows a princess who’s looking for a career change.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Lexa sighed, and Calliope rubbed her white face up against the dragon’s snout, in reassurance before padding away. Lexa stared after her. “ _Must_ you have so many of those things?” she asks. “I realize they help you control your magic, but isn’t nineteen rather excessive?”

“Twenty-two,” Clarke corrected automatically. “I found Bristle, Tortoise and Ondine last week.” Lexa shook her massive head, disgusted.

When Clarke got to the Weed-Off, it was with a pot of glowing Snapdragon clenched in white fists, and a look so dark she looked set for a war.

She hadn’t even planned to show up tonight, until Lexa’s visit. She was going to just send the plant over and finish translating one of the old books Gustus, one of Lexa’s advisors, had let her borrow. In fact, Clarke hadn’t actually been to a Weed-Off for nearly two months, and the reason for her avoidance was now standing right in front of her, smug grin stuck on his face.

“Well if it isn’t Witch Griffin,” Bellamy crowed. “And here I thought you must have come down with Measles, or something, we haven’t seen your plain face in so long.”

“Clearly you’ve missed it,” Clarke says primly, carrying her pot over to the judging table. “Or you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of greeting me so warmly.” She set it down and tried to eye up the competition as subtly as possible—and of course, his caught her attention instantly.

“Dragonwort?” she asked, incredulous, and now his grin was bright and pleased.

“ _Drakondia_ ,” he corrected, and she rolled her eyes; _of course_ he would use the Greek name. Honestly, the man was as pretentious as her cats. “Took me a few months—but I’m sure your Snapdragon will place second, easily enough.”

Clarke gritted her teeth, because there was the _real_ reason she hated Witch Blake; before his sudden arrival at the Weed-Off’s, she had come in first place each week for a record of ninety-eight times. She’d had her eye on the ninety-ninth, when he’d come strolling in with his Lady’s Glove that sang _My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean_ in perfect pitch, and snagged the ribbon right out from under her.

And she’d been willing to congratulate him, earnestly even, because his win was impressive and Clarke was a good sport. But then he’d just _sneered_ down at her—“Better luck next time, princess,” and she’d hated him on the spot.

“How can you be so insensitive?” she snapped, and Bellamy looked a little lost. “Some of us are _friends_ with dragons, Blake—what do you think would happen if one of them were to show up right now?”

He looked a little sorry, now, which she was only a bit smug about. Because it was true, of course; if Lexa were to stop by unexpected, the Dragonswort would instantly send her into a sneezing fit, and she’d have a rash on her scales for weeks.

“I tampered with the recipe a little,” he said, nodding to the bloom. “Give it a smell.”

She almost didn’t, because it could be a trick, and _everyone_ knows that Dragonswort smells like dead things, but for once he doesn’t seem spiteful. So she bends down and sniffs, and smells— _nothing_.

He looked pleased when she stands up, and he was _blushing_ , which was new and a little disconcerting. He was still very handsome, even if he was an ass, and she wasn’t used to thinking of him as such. “I think I at least diluted the effects, if not erased them completely. I didn’t want to actually _test_ it, just in case.”

Clarke nodded, impressed. “It’s a good idea, Bellamy. This could save me from having to use _Foxglove_ whenever Lexa wants Cherries Jubilee.” She made a face; Foxglove was altogether an unpleasant herb, but it was the closest taste to Dragonswort that she could find on short notice. Bellamy laughed.

“Only you would make dessert for a dragon,” he teased, and he sounded almost fond about it. Clarke squinted up at him, confused.

“Why are you being nice to me?” she demanded, and he blinked a little in surprise.

He rubbed the back of his neck. It was a surprisingly endearing gesture, and Clarke bit the skin of her cheek in annoyance; he wasn’t _supposed_ to be endearing. He was supposed to be insufferable, so she didn’t feel bad about wanting to hex his kneecaps backwards.

But now she just wanted to kiss him silly, which was infinitely _worse_.

“I know you think I just come to these things to make fun of you,” he started, and then huffed a little, embarrassed. “And I do, kind of. But I actually _do_ like this—growing things, and making them _better_. And the winner gets broadcasted in the newsletter, so I figured, this is the easiest way to get hybrids like this one out there. To let people know they don’t have to use Foxglove when they make food for their dragon friends.”

Clarke frowned. “But you were such a—an _ass_ ,” she declared, and he flushed a deep shade of crimson.

“My sister says I have an inability to talk to women,” he said lamely, and Clarke scowled.

“That’s a rubbish excuse,” she decided. “And you’re a rubbish grown man, to not be able to _talk_ to half the population!”

 _Now_ there was the Bellamy she knew—eyes narrowed and mouth open, ready to disagree.

But before he could, someone stepped in between them.

Clarke had known Raven almost as long as she had known Lexa, even though Raven moved out of the forest years ago. She still liked to make a day trip in to the Weed-Off’s, every now and again, and sometimes she’d stop by the apothecary for tea and pumpkin bread.

Raven didn’t actually _grow_ things, so much as _make_ them. She always entered one of her mechanical monstrosities in the competition, if only to annoy the Coven’s Council, made up entirely of stuffy witches from The Old Days, whenever those were.

“Is there a reason one of your cats showed up at my doorstep, telling me to come to tonight’s show?” Raven asked, amused, and Clarke frowned down at the cat in question—Murphy, lounging in Raven’s arms and purring contentedly.

“You were just supposed to _ask_ her,” Clarke chided.

“Ask me _what_?” Raven asked, as the cat jumped down, having found something more interesting to spend its valuable time on.

“If you happen to know any princesses in need of a lifestyle change,” Clarke explained, and Raven cocked a brow, looking at her pointedly. “Not _me,_ ” Clarke huffed. “I like my lifestyle the way it is, thank you.”

Behind Raven, Bellamy choked on his warm cider, and Clarke glanced at him, annoyed.

“Is there something you would like to share with us, or are you intending to just eavesdrop all night?”

“I just didn’t realize you actually _were_ a princess, Princess,” he teased, and gave Raven a once-over. “Reyes,” he said amiably.

“Blake,” Raven smirked, and Clarke hated the flash of irritation she felt, that he didn’t seem to have a problem talking with _Raven_ —just her.

“Former princess,” Clarke corrected, and then paused. “Probably. We’re not really sure, but anyhow, I haven’t worn a crown in ages.”

“What’s this new fascination you have with princesses, anyhow?” Raven asked, bringing them all back to the matter at hand, and Clarke sighed.

“Lexa needs one,” she said. “Apparently the King of the Dragons has to have its own princess, or they lose the throne.”

Raven frowned. “Will anyone actually fight her on it?”

“I don’t really know,” Clarke shrugged. “They all seem to like her well enough, but I know Tristan was pretty rankled when she won the crown, and Luna’s had her eye on it for ages.”

“Sorry,” Bellamy cut in, passing Clarke a cup of cider, since she hadn’t had the chance to grab one herself. “But what have princesses got to do with dragon politics?”

“I forget you’re not from here,” Clarke said, sounding rather affectionate despite herself. Raven shot her a look, which she promptly ignored. “A princess is a sign of wealth, power, or good-standing for dragons. All the older, noble dragons have one, and even a few of the younger ones that got lucky and were near the right kingdom at the right time. Sometimes if a king has too many princesses, he’ll send one off to the mountains, to stay with a dragon until she’s rescued by a knight. It’s a pretty solid way to ensure a marriage. Lexa had me for a few years, but then I moved into the forest, and she hasn’t gotten a new one since.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Bellamy asked. “Your father sent you away to live with dragons?”

“No. I was visiting a neighboring kingdom, and while I was gone, my kingdom got lost.”

Bellamy blinked. “It just—got _lost_?”

Raven squinted up at him. “How long have you lived in this forest? Everything gets lost in it, eventually. But sometimes they turn up again.”

Clarke nodded. “I’ve lost my cottage half a dozen times by now,” she agreed. “But one of the cats always comes and finds me.”

“Well I haven’t gotten lost yet,” Bellamy boasted, and the girls each reached up to pat his shoulders. He was very—firm.

“You will,” Clarke promised.

“In answer to your question, no,” Raven added, sipping from a flask she’d dug out of her robes. Clarke knew it was enchanted to always be filled with a deep-burning whiskey of her own making. “I don’t know of any princesses—except for you, of course—but I’ll keep an eye out. Does the princess have to be human, by the way?”

Clarke frowned. She hadn’t really given it much thought. “I believe so,” she decided. Better safe than sorry, after all, and she’d never heard of a dragon with a _frog_ princess, or anything.

“And your only qualifications are that she’s human, and wants to live somewhere new,” Bellamy hedged, and Clarke eyed him suspiciously.

“Don’t tell me _you_ know a princess.”

Bellamy grinned wolfishly. “You’re not the only princess in my repertoire,” he boasted, downing the rest of his drink. “Let me just collect my blue ribbon, and I’ll take you to meet her.”

He did win the blue, of course. Clarke rolled her eyes when he shot her a wink as he took it.

It was dark out by the time the Weed-Off’s were finished, but that didn’t mean much to a witch. They each had a different spell to see at night—except for Raven, who had her own homemade goggles—and so when Bellamy and Clarke set off through the trees, it might as well have been near midday.

Bellamy walked assuredly through the forest, with legs long enough that she had to double her strides, huffing along beside him. She saw him duck to hide a grin once or twice when she started to breathe heavy, but at least he wasn’t mocking her.

Murphy sprouted up on her right, trotting along with them. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “You didn’t want to go home for supper?”

Bellamy stared at her sideways, reproachful; the cats only made themselves understood when they wanted to, and clearly Bellamy had not bribed Murphy enough yet.

“And then who would find you if you were to get lost?” the cat snapped, clearly annoyed, with her for leaving unannounced, and with himself for following after.

“You’re very sweet,” Clarke placated, and pulled a dead mouse from her sleeve, dropping it down for him. Bellamy scrunched his nose in disgust.

“You keep dead things in your _sleeves_?”

“They’re enchanted,” Clarke sniffed. “And connected to my cottage, so I can fetch whatever I need from inside.”

Bellamy looked at her admiringly. “You really are very gifted,” he said, and Clarke felt herself flushing. She hoped his night-vision spell wasn’t very good.

“Of course I am,” she sniffed, and he laughed so loud it echoed back at them.

And then he stopped so shortly, she walked right into his back.

“Oof,” Clarke grumbled, glaring up at him, but Bellamy ignored her, glancing all around in a panic. She felt her heart sink; she knew that look. “Let me guess, it should be right here?”

Beside her, Murphy muttered something in his cat-language, clearly not wanting her to hear.

“I don’t understand,” Bellamy said.

Murphy rolled his eyes, sitting back on his haunches. “They never do.”

“It was _right here_ ,” Bellamy cried, waving a hand around at the empty clearing before them. Clarke squeezed his arm gently, and he whirled on her. “You jinxed me,” he accused, and she gaped at him. “You said I’d get lost!”

“But you didn’t get lost,” she argued, indignant. “Your princess did.” She grimaced at the wording— _your_ princess—and hoped it wasn’t too accurate.

Bellamy deflated a little. “It was right here,” he said again, and she felt sorry for him, even if he was an ass half the time.

“I’m sure it was, but we won’t be able to search for it until morning. You can stay at my cottage for the night.”

“Why should we wait?” he demanded, and Clarke raised a brow.

“Have you ever tried to search for something in these woods in the middle of the night? It’s not pleasant. Now, come on,” she led him by the arm, back towards the apothecary. “We can be there within the hour, and I have a craving for some tea.”

“You _always_ want tea,” Murphy pointed out, but he seemed altogether pleasant, now that he knew they were headed home.

“And you always want mice, but you don’t hear me complaining,” Clarke snapped, and Bellamy frowned at her. “The cat,” she explained.

“Did you enchant yourself, to be able to understand them?” he asked, and Clarke shook her head while Murphy scoffed, offended.

“I’ve never met a cat who wasn’t multilingual,” she said. “But they won’t let you understand unless they want you to.”

“And what about other creatures?” he asked, hungry for knowledge despite himself. She could tell he was still worried about his missing princess, and she was very pointedly not wondering what his relationship with that princess was.

“How is it you’re a witch, and yet you know so little about magic?”

Bellamy shrugged. His hand had slipped into hers, somehow, but he didn’t mention it, and so she won’t, either. “I didn’t know I was one until a few months ago.” He gave a wry smile. “Until then, I was just a gardener, a few miles outside of these woods.”

“You’re still a gardener,” she pointed out, and he grinned at her.

Then, all at once, he sobered. “You said sometimes, the things show up again?”

“Most times,” Clarke nodded. “Everything gets lost here, eventually. But almost nothing really ever _stays_ lost.”

“Except for your kingdom.”

“Yes,” she agreed, flat. He squeezed her hand once, twice. It felt nice against hers. “Except for that.”

They reached the apothecary in less than an hour, just as she’d said, and Bellamy snorted when he saw the sign. “Typical.”

“It certainly gets the point across,” she sniffed, and he tugged on her curls gently.

“I don’t think you need any help getting your point across, Clarke,” he said, voice low, and she felt her mouth go dry, looking up at him. In the moonlight, his skin was almost the same color as autumn leaves, his freckles pinpricking their way through.

He was rather beautiful, in an insufferable sort of way.

“Yes, well,” she huffed, turning away to lead him inside. “I’ve been told I have a commanding presence.”

Murphy scoffed by her feet. “Right, _that’s_ what it is.” She shot him a glare.

“Shouldn’t you be hunting gophers, or something?”

He rolled his eyes at her before sauntering away, slow enough to make it clear that leaving was _his_ idea, and no one else’s.

Clarke poured them each a cup of ginger-anise tea from the kettle, while Bellamy tried to find a surface _not_ occupied by a cat, where he could sit.

Clarke clicked her tongue at them all. “Scatter,” she ordered with a glare, and they each glared right back before languidly stretching, grooming themselves, glaring around at the room in general, and then hopping down to seep into some other corner of the cottage.

“Is it true they help with spells?” Bellamy asked, sitting down at the table.

Clarke stifled a laugh before joining him. “You have an awful lot to learn,” she teased, but he looked straight at her, serious.

“Could you teach me?”

Clarke stared back at him, a little shocked. “Me? Wouldn’t you rather—someone else?”

Bellamy frowned. “You’re the best witch I know,” he said, and now she was going pink again. _Damn_ her complexion.

“But,” Clarke spluttered, trying to lessen the pink in her cheeks. “You don’t even _like_ me!”

Bellamy glanced down at the tea in his cup, swirling the tiny anise leaves around. His neck looked distinctly redder than usual. “I like you a great deal,” he said quietly, looking up. “I’m fairly certain it’s impossible _not_ to.”

Clarke gaped at him for a long, stretched-out moment, before snapping her jaw shut with a glare. “This had better not be some strategy to beat me in the next Weed-Off,” she warned, and Bellamy barked out a laugh.

And then he took the tea from her hands and set it aside with his own, before wrapping a hand around her neck, and kissing her.

Clarke kissed him back for a while, until the table’s edge grew too sharp on her stomach to ignore. When she pulled back, he was grinning, boyish and hopeful and nervous, and she had to cross her arms to quiet her heart.

“Clarke,” he said, fond. His hand was still cupping her cheek, and his thumb brushed against her lip. She bit the tip, and his eyes grew dark. “I don’t have to kiss you to beat you,” he finished, and she kicked him under the table.

“But I would like to,” he said, once he’d finished rubbing the bruise on his leg. “Kiss you.”

Clarke was still glaring at him. “What, again?”

“As much as you’ll let me.”

She bit her lip, and he grinned, leaning forward.

“You did say I have a lot to learn,” he hedged, sliding his hand across her knee and dipping under her skirt to stroke her thigh.

Clarke closed her eyes without really meaning to, and she could feel him grinning when he kissed her neck. “We should get some sleep,” she breathed, even as he nosed at the collar of her blouse, making it hard for her to think. “We have a quest in the morning.”

“You’re right.” Bellamy pressed a chaste kiss to her shoulder, before standing. “Where am I sleeping?” he asked, sounding impossibly nervous, given he’d just had his hand up her thigh.

Clarke took his hand and started dragging him down the hallway. “You’d best not snore,” she said darkly, and he ducked to hide a smile.

“I won’t,” he promised, and shut the door behind them.

He did snore, and loudly, but she couldn’t find the heart to kick him out for it. And he was a _furnace_ , making her sweat in the night, and chasing her all around the bed whenever she rolled over. She fell asleep with his hand in hers, and woke up much the same. They were still fully-clothed—well, he’d taken off his shirt, claiming it was more comfortable, but she suspected he’d just wanted to show off his chest.

To be fair, it was a very nice chest, and deserved her appreciation.

They had kissed, sleepy, wet kisses that made her toes curl, but nothing more because Clarke wasn’t an amateur. She took her tutoring very seriously, and was planning to make him work for everything that he got.

The pale light of dawn streaked in through the glass, and she kicked him.

Bellamy huffed a little in his sleep, and then cracked one eye open. He seemed to be checking if she was real, and once he’d decided she was, he grinned and rolled over to kiss her.

“It’s morning,” she gasped when he bit at her jaw, and she pulled at his hair so he groaned.

“So it is,” he agreed, licking her neck. “And a very good one, at that.”

Clarke laughed and kissed him once, quickly, before shoving him off so he flopped down with a grin just beside her. “We have to find your missing princess,” she reminded him. “And then you can kiss me as much as you like.”

“As much as I like?” His smile was feral, and Clarke narrowed her eyes.

“Within _reason_ ,” she amended, sitting up. “Now, come on. It takes _ages_ to search the forest, and you haven’t invested in a house cat, so we’ll have to walk it ourselves.” She shook her head at him, and he laughed.

“I’ll get one first thing once we find it,” he promised, lacing up his boots.

“Are you going to tell me how it is you know this princess?” Clarke asked. They’d been walking for nearly half an hour now, and she couldn’t hold it back any longer. She fought to keep her voice even, light, but Bellamy glanced back at her and she knew he could tell anyway.

“It’s not what you think it is,” he assured her, and she knew he might be lying, but. It didn’t _sound_ like a lie. “It’s better if I show you, when we get there.” He took her hand in his, and it felt like a promise.

“Suspicious,” Miller sniffed by her side. He’d invited himself along, to make sure Bellamy didn’t lead her anywhere unsavory. It was endearing; Miller was essentially a very old, very serious soldier wrapped up in the body of a cat.

They found the beanstalk first, just some miles from the empty clearing where the princess had gone missing.

“I’m willing to bet this has something to do with it,” Clarke declared, searching for the easiest way to climb up.

“What are you doing?” Bellamy snapped, voice short with fear. Of course—he’d never encountered a beanstalk, before. He’d probably only ever heard the stories. “What _is_ it?”

“It’s a beanstalk, obviously,” Clarke told him, hitching up her skirt. “And I’m climbing up, what does it look like? How else do you expect to reach the top?”

“What’s up there?” he asked, steadying her by the hip as she stepped onto one of the thickest vines.

“Giants, I expect,” she shrugged. “Come along, then. Maybe if we’re polite enough, they’ll offer us some tea—Giant tea is the _best_.” She was practically salivating, thinking about it.

Bellamy clearly didn’t trust the beanstalk, or whatever was at the top, but he was a fast climber with sure movements, and quickly overtook her, with Miller curled up on his shoulder.

He helped pull her up when she reached the top, onto a plateau, with quite a large garden and an even larger house. Bellamy only just stood clearer than the front step, and had to pull himself up one at a time, while Clarke just used an anti-gravitational spell.

“Couldn’t you have done that to get us up here?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Clarke shrugged. “I needed the exercise.”

Bellamy shook his head at her, and then stared up at the enormous front door. “What now? Do we sneak in through the crack?”

Clarke frowned at him. “Where are your manners?” she chided. “We’ll knock.” She did, three times, and then stepped back to wait. Bellamy looked unconvinced.

But then the door swung open, and they were staring at a pair of enormous feet wearing a pair of enormous house slippers. They craned their necks up and up and up, to find an enormous woman staring impassively down at them, while a pretty girl their size perched on her shoulder.

The girl waved down at them. “Hi, Bell!” she called, voice high and tinny from so far away. Bellamy gaped up at her.

“O, what are you doing up here?” he shouted, and Clarke couldn’t _really_ tell from down there, but she was pretty sure the girl rolled her eyes.

“The castle just showed up here while you were at your witch thing,” she called down. “This is Anya’s house. She’s been really nice—she gave me dinner, and let me spend the night and everything!”

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME IN?” Anya asked, rattling their bones a little.

“Yes please, that would be lovely!” Clarke shouted, and Anya led them all inside.

Anya set the girl down on her kitchen counter, while Clarke used her spell to get the rest of them up, too.

Now that they were face to face, she could see the girl was lovely, wearing a plain skirt and long, dark hair braided back from her face. She clutched Bellamy and laughed into his shoulder as he swung her around, and Clarke did her best not to worry.

He’d _promised_.

Bellamy sat the girl down with a grin, checking her over a little, and then turned back to Clarke. “This is Octavia, princess of the Enchanted Forest,” he smiled proudly. “My sister.”

Clarke gaped at them both, before collecting herself. She shot Bellamy a glare that said _we will talk about this later_ , and then turned to Octavia. “Your brother said you want to live somewhere else?”

Octavia glanced over at her brother questioningly. “I mean, yeah, I guess. I don’t _hate_ the forest, but I never had a say in coming here.”

Bellamy blanched a little, looking guilty. “O, I know—”

Octavia waved a hand in his face. “I told you, it’s fine. I just wouldn’t mind living in a house that didn’t turn invisible, or rearrange itself without telling me, so when I open my door suddenly I’m in the ocean.”

“That’s fair,” Clarke agreed, and then scooped up Miller so they were nose-to-nose. “Please go find Lexa and tell her to come here,” she said, and he gave half a sigh before disappearing.

“Whoa,” Octavia said, and Clarke grinned at her.

“My friend is King of the Dragons,” she said, “And she needs a princess to live with her in the mountain.”

Octavia stared at her, wide-eyed. “And you want me to do it?”

“Would you like to?”

The princess shared a look with her brother—who, Clarke realized, must be a _prince_ —and then turned back with a hard look on her face. “Definitely.”

“I’VE MADE SOME TEA,” Anya announced, above them. “WOULD YOU LIKE SOME?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Clarke said with a happy sigh—she’d found a princess for Lexa, most likely had a boyfriend if she wanted, and now she had some good tea. All was right with the world.

They chatted—with occasional booming interruptions from Anya though for the most part, the giantess seemed very quiet—until a muffled earth-shaking sounded from outside.

“That’ll be Lexa,” Clarke chirped, and sure enough, the door burst open and Lexa swooped in, only dwarfed a little by the enormous house around her.

She lighted delicately on the counter beside them, with Miller perched on the scales of her back, and eyed them each in turn. Her gaze snagged on Octavia, and Clarke muffled a smirk.

“She’s very lovely,” Lexa said, and Bellamy looked shell-shocked.

“You’re female,” he said dumbly, and Clarke gave him a look.

“I’ve talked about her before, what on earth were you expecting?”

“You said _King_ of the Dragons,” he said defensively.

Lexa waved a single clawed hand impatiently. “It’s a gender-neutral term.” She turned to Octavia. “You wish to live with me in the mountain?”

The princess nodded, and then paused. “They don’t move around on their own, do they?”

Lexa grinned, toothy and dangerous, but Octavia didn’t seem to notice, which was a good sign. “No,” she promised. “Though there is the pest of knights in shining armor showing up unannounced.”

Octavia waved a hand, dismissively. “Those are easy to handle,” she declared. “I bullied the castle guard into teaching me fencing.”

Lexa let out a throaty laugh, and then turned her back to them, so they could climb on. “I wish to see the look on Tristan’s face, when my princess slays her first knight,” she told Clarke with a grin. Clarke pat her flank and nodded, before climbing up. The three of them—plus Miller—fit a little snugly, but the flight to the ground was short, and when they landed, the gleam of a castle shone just a few yards away.

“I told you it’d come back,” Clarke teased as Bellamy helped her down. Only Octavia didn’t dismount, but she did give her brother a last awkward hug from on top of the dragon.

“I’ll come visit soon,” she promised, and then Lexa took flight.

They watched until the two disappeared, and then Bellamy turned to offer Clarke a nervous grin. “So, want to see my castle?”

“Ugh,” she made a face and shoved him, but he just took the opportunity to grab onto her hand, leading her up to the gate.

He led her through the marble corridor, into a room off the side. She found herself in a study, well-built and furnished, with intricate wood furniture and hundreds and hundreds of books. It smelled like wood smoke and old paper, and she fell in love with it instantly.

“Not your bedroom?” she teased as he sat in an enormous desk chair, and he flushed.

“I didn’t want to be presumptuous,” he said, tugging her into his lap.

“That’s a first.” She curled her hands into the curls at his neck, and he leaned forward to breathe against her neck. “So, you’re prince of the Enchanted Forest.”

“King, actually,” he said, muffled by her hair, and Clarke pulled back to stare at him. He looked sheepish, at least.

“How on earth are you king of the Enchanted Forest, when you know _nothing_ about it?” she demanded, and he sat back with a sigh.

“Apparently my father died before my mother had me, and she was forced to leave the forest altogether. She only told me about my heritage on her deathbed—I’d always thought my father was a poor farmer, who died in a plague.”

"So you and Octavia just packed up and found yourselves a castle?"

Bellamy laughed, combing a hand through her hair, fingers warm on the back of her head. "What else was there to do? We didn't own the farm, or the house. Our mother was buried--Octavia didn't want to come; she didn't want to be a princess. She'd always wanted to be the knight, in all the stories. She wanted to be the hero, not some damsel in a tower."

"Now she's a damsel in a cave," Clarke pointed out. "Much better than a tower."

Bellamy grinned, and she brushed his cheek with her thumb until his eyes went dark. " _Much_ better," he agreed.

“And now you have a magical kingdom you don’t know what to do with,” Clarke guessed, and he leaned in again, trailing fluttery kisses up her chest.

“That’s why I’ve hired a teacher,” he told her, grinning cheekily. “She’s going to teach me everything she knows.”

“Maybe not _everything_ ,” Clarke smiled, and kissed him. She had more than a few tricks left in her magic sleeves.


End file.
